Condition of brain
Somewhat mushy, but better by the minute. The fatigue'd been the cumulative effect of two nights on the town, w/o adequate sleep. I’m unaccustomed to being on the town for more than one night.
Last night’s best and most memorable experiences was dinner at Daniella’s, which is sort of tucked away in Lakeland, generally abutting the New York State Fairgrounds, and appended to a Best Western. Daniella’s Steakhouse is run by a man named Charlie with short but stylish hair, a strong Upstater’s accent, and a proclivity to satisfy requests that he “dance, baby” with a distinctive shoulder wiggle that sometimes anticipates his singing a few bars of whatever song the keyboardist is playing. And oh that keyboardist. I missed his name, but there on his little stool and set of electric ivories next to the kitchen doors, he was able to invest renditions of “Fly Me To the Moon” and “Come Fly With Me” with some surprisingly adept tinkly riffs. Spritely versions of “Happy Birthday” received full dining room participation, even when we had to sing the song twice in succession—once for Mom and once for Susie. Whose pictures follow below.
J. and myself. I seem to be regaling my family with the story of the time I broke my wrist, and cured it with amber spirits; but you can tell from J.'s expression that he knows I'm kidding. But seriously folks: all day long my mother was calling home from the jeweler’s in order to coordinate the evening’s reservations, and to see if Melissa and Adam—I almost wrote Jon just now—had arrived home from Rochester. Mom, see, was trying to get my father back for his birthday surprises earlier this week, and modest though it was in the way of schemes and skulduggery it did wind up being a nice surprise for him. Just for fun, really. And also yesterday, my friend Jayne stopped in on her way to Buffalo, NY. I made omelets for Jayne, J., and myself, the declining quality of which proved that vegetarian omelets are more easily manipulated than steak omelets. That is not a reason to go vegetarian, Jayne. But so anyway it was expected for a little while that afternoon that Jayne might stick around for dinner, and as such there was another empty chair at the steakhouse. It occurred to me once we were seated and had received our drinks that it would be fitting to make a toast to Jon, especially since there was a chair for him; I believe that's what I'm gearing up to do, and believe me when I say that it was appropriately tearful, but not too much. Which seems important to note. He liked a good steak, Jon did. A surf and turf kind of guy.
The parents. They are doing all right.
I offer this shot as pre-emptive proof that yes, sometimes when I'm drinking a beverage, yes, my pinky hovers off in mid-air in a manner some might call effete. I submit that the gesture is a) fraternal, allowing me to indicate the photographer or whomever, and b) an effective emergency device that, should the glass slip, will foster the catching of the slipped glass. J.'s eyes are closed in exasperation with this explanation, you can be sure.
Melissa and Adam. Cute? Cute.
The best big brotherish evil eye I'm capable of. Note Adam's excellent shirt, which is of a man's silhouette growing comfortably into happy obesity.
Some have opined that we have similar jawlines. Blame the milkman.
The birthday girls. Happy Belated Birthdays! Apparently Mom doesn't want this posted (she just walked in and objected). Too bad!
*
Recently acquired:
Marvin Gaye, I Want You
Lost in Translation Soundtrack
John Lennon, Plastic Ono Band
The Lost in Translation soundtrack’s been my late night standby, especially the Death in Vegas song “Girls.” The Lennon’s outstanding for the sound of John’s voice in “Mother” and other songs, which sounds sort of like what Whitman’s barbaric yawp turned upside down such that it can contain the maximum range and variety of personal suffering. And the Marvin Gaye, some critics say, is even more of a baby-maker than Let’s Get It On or anything Sade ever released—even Love Deluxe. I can affirm that songs like “Come Live With Me Angel” attain erotic heights the likes of which “You Sure Love to Ball” from Let’s Get It On just doesn’t attain. The reappearance of the hyperventilating, uh, “participants” in the background of the mix remains a smart and colorful touch.
*
I’ve been learning some things about myself in the last week or so. One is that no matter how much I don’t feel like meeting new people or going to a large Irish pub that’s lousy with unfamiliar garrulous people, I will begin to enjoy myself if I go ahead and order a Dewar’s—which is NOT pronounced deWARR’s, but DUers; take note if you want to prevent stocky bartenders from whispering your erroneous pronunciation into the ear of another bartender, who’ll then laugh heartily.
I’ve also learned that I love having people around. Brooklyn was a bane because there wasn’t much in the way of human presence in my home; my flatmates and I never crossed paths, and the people upstairs, for whom I have no ill will now that I’m out from under their clomping, didn’t seem befriendable for a few reasons. But since I’ve been home there’s been a long extended chain of visits I have had the good pleasure to play host to and enjoy and conspire to extend. There’s been a certain amt. of fatigue involved, but what overwhelms that fatigue is this gratitude for having people around. It’s taken me years to recognize this fact about myself, although in Oregon it was pretty clear that there was an attainable ideal balance between productive solitude and sociability. This recognition occurs simultaneously with what I termed in discussion with J. last night as a certain resurgence of familial activities. That’s another unavoidable and wonderful fact: having other people visit and co-exist allows you to glean perspective on your life and circumstances in a way you haven’t yet been able to do. But this past week has been a sort of return to form, or maybe even a turn to a new and more accomplished form of sociability and the family appreciating company - both its own and that of others.
It’s a high and dark irony that the family would seem to be shifting into this higher gear of care and expressed love for each other in the weeks after Jon’s departure. Of course, Jon’s departure is exactly what is now causing this shifting into that higher gear. Still: the fact that this family and that we as individuals have the capacity to find in ourselves and share with each other a certain joie de vivre makes me wonder if this same joie de vivre could have somehow found expression earlier and aimed at Jon. Nights like last night, Super Bowl spreads like tonight’s Super Bowl spread (Buffalo wings, barbeque chicken legs, honey cornbread, crab dip, all homemade)—all of these items and happenings and people and occasions to gather represent this, I don’t know, energy of kinship which could have arced toward and enveloped Jon in his Colorado months, or in his final Saturday morning, and been strong enough to remind him of nights like last night and tonight. I don’t intend for this paragraph to harp overmuch on the same-old, same-old issues of “What could we have done??”, because there’s not much good in such thinking. What there is instead is an appreciation, I suppose, of such times and a nostalgia for similar times when Jon was there.
*
To that end:
This morning Melissa and Adam were talking about what they (i.e. Adam) should make for breakfast. Waffles entered the discussion. Melissa remembered when I was making waffles one Sunday (probably it was a Sunday; I’m going on tradition), complete with blueberry compote. Jon asked me what was in the pot, and apparently I began to discourse, as is my wont, about the antioxidant properties of blueberries, and that in some pop-medical study I’d seen somewhere blueberries were agreed to be one of the best foods one can possibly ingest. Which was when Jon said, “Will! I just asked what was in the pot! God!” He had a way of saying such things, exclamatory things, without real anger; I would compare it to the way George Costanza’s dad, or Abbott of Abbott and Costello if that’s more your speed, would get all verklempt and start yelling about the second baseman or the Mansiere. (Remember? “We’re calling it the Bro!” “Mansiere!”) But to continue the comedy metaphor, Jon’s the straight man who doesn’t need a funny man, a Costello or a George, because the force of his exasperation was sufficiently large to let you know that he was kidding. The laugh he tended to let loose after such a short-fused outburst—“God! What a goof!”—was composed of actual and distinct Ha’s, which is my favorite type of laughter.
Last night’s best and most memorable experiences was dinner at Daniella’s, which is sort of tucked away in Lakeland, generally abutting the New York State Fairgrounds, and appended to a Best Western. Daniella’s Steakhouse is run by a man named Charlie with short but stylish hair, a strong Upstater’s accent, and a proclivity to satisfy requests that he “dance, baby” with a distinctive shoulder wiggle that sometimes anticipates his singing a few bars of whatever song the keyboardist is playing. And oh that keyboardist. I missed his name, but there on his little stool and set of electric ivories next to the kitchen doors, he was able to invest renditions of “Fly Me To the Moon” and “Come Fly With Me” with some surprisingly adept tinkly riffs. Spritely versions of “Happy Birthday” received full dining room participation, even when we had to sing the song twice in succession—once for Mom and once for Susie. Whose pictures follow below.
J. and myself. I seem to be regaling my family with the story of the time I broke my wrist, and cured it with amber spirits; but you can tell from J.'s expression that he knows I'm kidding. But seriously folks: all day long my mother was calling home from the jeweler’s in order to coordinate the evening’s reservations, and to see if Melissa and Adam—I almost wrote Jon just now—had arrived home from Rochester. Mom, see, was trying to get my father back for his birthday surprises earlier this week, and modest though it was in the way of schemes and skulduggery it did wind up being a nice surprise for him. Just for fun, really. And also yesterday, my friend Jayne stopped in on her way to Buffalo, NY. I made omelets for Jayne, J., and myself, the declining quality of which proved that vegetarian omelets are more easily manipulated than steak omelets. That is not a reason to go vegetarian, Jayne. But so anyway it was expected for a little while that afternoon that Jayne might stick around for dinner, and as such there was another empty chair at the steakhouse. It occurred to me once we were seated and had received our drinks that it would be fitting to make a toast to Jon, especially since there was a chair for him; I believe that's what I'm gearing up to do, and believe me when I say that it was appropriately tearful, but not too much. Which seems important to note. He liked a good steak, Jon did. A surf and turf kind of guy.
The parents. They are doing all right.
I offer this shot as pre-emptive proof that yes, sometimes when I'm drinking a beverage, yes, my pinky hovers off in mid-air in a manner some might call effete. I submit that the gesture is a) fraternal, allowing me to indicate the photographer or whomever, and b) an effective emergency device that, should the glass slip, will foster the catching of the slipped glass. J.'s eyes are closed in exasperation with this explanation, you can be sure.
Melissa and Adam. Cute? Cute.
The best big brotherish evil eye I'm capable of. Note Adam's excellent shirt, which is of a man's silhouette growing comfortably into happy obesity.
Some have opined that we have similar jawlines. Blame the milkman.
The birthday girls. Happy Belated Birthdays! Apparently Mom doesn't want this posted (she just walked in and objected). Too bad!
*
Recently acquired:
Marvin Gaye, I Want You
Lost in Translation Soundtrack
John Lennon, Plastic Ono Band
The Lost in Translation soundtrack’s been my late night standby, especially the Death in Vegas song “Girls.” The Lennon’s outstanding for the sound of John’s voice in “Mother” and other songs, which sounds sort of like what Whitman’s barbaric yawp turned upside down such that it can contain the maximum range and variety of personal suffering. And the Marvin Gaye, some critics say, is even more of a baby-maker than Let’s Get It On or anything Sade ever released—even Love Deluxe. I can affirm that songs like “Come Live With Me Angel” attain erotic heights the likes of which “You Sure Love to Ball” from Let’s Get It On just doesn’t attain. The reappearance of the hyperventilating, uh, “participants” in the background of the mix remains a smart and colorful touch.
*
I’ve been learning some things about myself in the last week or so. One is that no matter how much I don’t feel like meeting new people or going to a large Irish pub that’s lousy with unfamiliar garrulous people, I will begin to enjoy myself if I go ahead and order a Dewar’s—which is NOT pronounced deWARR’s, but DUers; take note if you want to prevent stocky bartenders from whispering your erroneous pronunciation into the ear of another bartender, who’ll then laugh heartily.
I’ve also learned that I love having people around. Brooklyn was a bane because there wasn’t much in the way of human presence in my home; my flatmates and I never crossed paths, and the people upstairs, for whom I have no ill will now that I’m out from under their clomping, didn’t seem befriendable for a few reasons. But since I’ve been home there’s been a long extended chain of visits I have had the good pleasure to play host to and enjoy and conspire to extend. There’s been a certain amt. of fatigue involved, but what overwhelms that fatigue is this gratitude for having people around. It’s taken me years to recognize this fact about myself, although in Oregon it was pretty clear that there was an attainable ideal balance between productive solitude and sociability. This recognition occurs simultaneously with what I termed in discussion with J. last night as a certain resurgence of familial activities. That’s another unavoidable and wonderful fact: having other people visit and co-exist allows you to glean perspective on your life and circumstances in a way you haven’t yet been able to do. But this past week has been a sort of return to form, or maybe even a turn to a new and more accomplished form of sociability and the family appreciating company - both its own and that of others.
It’s a high and dark irony that the family would seem to be shifting into this higher gear of care and expressed love for each other in the weeks after Jon’s departure. Of course, Jon’s departure is exactly what is now causing this shifting into that higher gear. Still: the fact that this family and that we as individuals have the capacity to find in ourselves and share with each other a certain joie de vivre makes me wonder if this same joie de vivre could have somehow found expression earlier and aimed at Jon. Nights like last night, Super Bowl spreads like tonight’s Super Bowl spread (Buffalo wings, barbeque chicken legs, honey cornbread, crab dip, all homemade)—all of these items and happenings and people and occasions to gather represent this, I don’t know, energy of kinship which could have arced toward and enveloped Jon in his Colorado months, or in his final Saturday morning, and been strong enough to remind him of nights like last night and tonight. I don’t intend for this paragraph to harp overmuch on the same-old, same-old issues of “What could we have done??”, because there’s not much good in such thinking. What there is instead is an appreciation, I suppose, of such times and a nostalgia for similar times when Jon was there.
*
To that end:
This morning Melissa and Adam were talking about what they (i.e. Adam) should make for breakfast. Waffles entered the discussion. Melissa remembered when I was making waffles one Sunday (probably it was a Sunday; I’m going on tradition), complete with blueberry compote. Jon asked me what was in the pot, and apparently I began to discourse, as is my wont, about the antioxidant properties of blueberries, and that in some pop-medical study I’d seen somewhere blueberries were agreed to be one of the best foods one can possibly ingest. Which was when Jon said, “Will! I just asked what was in the pot! God!” He had a way of saying such things, exclamatory things, without real anger; I would compare it to the way George Costanza’s dad, or Abbott of Abbott and Costello if that’s more your speed, would get all verklempt and start yelling about the second baseman or the Mansiere. (Remember? “We’re calling it the Bro!” “Mansiere!”) But to continue the comedy metaphor, Jon’s the straight man who doesn’t need a funny man, a Costello or a George, because the force of his exasperation was sufficiently large to let you know that he was kidding. The laugh he tended to let loose after such a short-fused outburst—“God! What a goof!”—was composed of actual and distinct Ha’s, which is my favorite type of laughter.
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11:07 AM
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